


Owned

by morgan_cian



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, BDSM, Dom/sub, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:58:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan_cian/pseuds/morgan_cian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief moment changes the lives of two men, a kind of coming of age story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Owned

**Author's Note:**

> I am very affected by visuals, whether it be art or writing and this story is very inspired (with a lot of artistic freedom) by a very good friend, who is so fucking smart, human, haunting, and incomprable. I know this way too early to be posting. For once, I am early instead of belated :P. Your birthday is coming soon, Alex, may it be blessed and warm with many more in the years ahead. I don't think I can ever really put into words at how humbled I am that I call you friend. So happy birthday soon, [](http://ashmedai.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ashmedai.livejournal.com/)**ashmedai** , this story is dedicated to you in celebration of your birth. *hugs*

I wake up slowly and the sun is just beginning to rise. As I roll out of bed, I can feel the ache in my body, the pull of abused muscles and bruised flesh. I sit and press my fingers into the bruises on my thighs, relishing in the sharp pain it brings. Then I stretch as I make my way to the bathroom and take care of morning ablutions. I stare at myself in the mirror and it brings back memories. Eyes that are wide, green, and serene stare back at me.

It was not always peaceful but the serenity is directly attributable to you.

*~*

The day I met you is a vivid picture imprinted on my very soul. My mother had blithely told me to make myself scarce as she entertained guests from her office. The table was set with wine glasses and candles. She must have had her eye on another man; why else would she have dug out the fine china?

No matter, making myself scarce meant freedom. And it was a beautiful day; spring was slowly lifting its face to the sun. My morning was spent in the library, losing myself in the words and the knowledge. But I chose to eat my meager lunch at a sidewalk cafe. It was a waste not to be in the sun and the air. My next destination was the park, the riot of color and the thick carpet of grass beneath my bare feet.

Walking to the park entrance, I was a bit distracted. I held my arms out to the side, embracing the air that lifted my hair to kiss my neck and tickle my arms. Not realizing that I was very near the busy roadway, my foot slipped on the curb. I squeezed my eyes shut, it was going to hurt and hurt badly. And wouldn't it piss my mom off to be drawn away from her elegant party to pick up my scrawny ass at the hospital.

It seemed like hours that the thoughts passed me by but it was mere seconds. I could see the on coming car before I was jerked backwards forcefully. Strong fingers bit into the bare skin of my biceps, warmth at my back as the air escaped my lungs and I trembled. The motorist blew the horn angrily before speeding on.

"What were you thinking, you little fool?" The voice was dark and deep, a growl that made me feel dizzy.

I was swung around and into long arms that shook me. I caught sight of dark hair and eyes before those long arms drew me into a rough embrace.

"Life is too short to be so careless for one so young."

Speechless, I thought I felt lips against my hair before I was released abruptly and the man walked away from me.

You saved my life or at least from injury and for that I was overwhelmed. I did not know that mere moment in time would change my life. It started a series of events that would make me yours.

*~*

I brew the tea and set out scones and fresh butter. My cat winds his way around my ankles until I lift him and give him the attention that he deserves.

Stroking his soft fur, I listen to his rumbling purr. Your hands make me purr whether they bring pain or pleasure.

It just took awhile to get there.

*~*

Getting into clubs, even underage, was ridiculously easy. A smile, a flash of fake identification, and a lick of lips got a pat to the ass as I walked through the door.

The music was pounding as I stayed in the shadows. I had just enough money in my pocket to get me home.

But I was thirsty and a hand in mine led me to the bar. The guy nibbled at my neck as I drank a beer, before moving to shots. My limbs felt heavy, my mind fuzzy, and the guy's hand against my groin felt good. Hands changed from petting to insistence, moving us to the darkened back room. Promises of sweet ecstasy were breathed against my ear.

Until long fingers bit into my shoulder and dragged me away from the guy who began sputtering angrily.

"You haven't learned the lesson yet, boy." It was the voice, your voice, the deep dark growl that made me shiver and look up.

It may sound stupid, right out of a bodice ripping romance novel, but my knees went weak and the only thing that kept me anchored was your fingers against my skin.

"How old are you?" You asked.

"Old enough," I replied, the alcohol made me cheeky.

My suitor pressed his case and anger, getting closer and shouting. You shut him up with a look, even as you pulled me against your side.

"I'll take you home." You stated and who was I to argue.

The air was fresh and cool against my heated skin. My thoughts caught up with my situation and I shrugged you off. The night was still too young to go home. I wasn't drunk enough or high enough to deal with her. I turned away from you to find another club, another drink, another set of hands that would make me feel good and make me forget.

You weren't having it.

"Just where do you think you are going, you little shit?" You snarled.

"None of your fucking business," I threw over my shoulder.

I could hear your hiss before your hands were on me again. You would tell me later that you were bored that night and it was the potential for excitement, for something out of the norm that made you interfere.

"I can call the authorities." You said easily, letting aloofness color your words.

Not that I cared, but it would have pissed her off and I did not fancy a night in lock up until she decided to come get me. So flinging my arms out, I danced against the cool night breeze.

"I'm not going home." I replied.

You stood there, a frown and there's something else on your face. Finally you shrugged, "I'm going to get something to eat, you are coming with me. Then I'll take you home."

I shivered. The tone, the dark promise of more if I disobeyed made me lower my arms to hug myself.

"Okay."

I followed you, helpless to deny you or disobey you. Your arm shot out and drew me to your side once more. I leaned into the warmth that you provided.

"You got a name?"

"Do you?" I shot back with a flash of teeth. The squeeze to my arm made me falter. Looking down at my feet, shuffling along the sidewalk, I muttered, "Adam."

"Jonathan."

You led me into a small, run down diner and you were greeted by name. When asked about me, you just shrugged, "Need to fatten him up before he's thrown back in with the sharks."

My face heated at that. I was short for my age. And skinny. It was enough that school was a constant humiliation. I argued with my mother until she relented and let me take my exams. She had sneered that I wasn't man enough to face the world; maybe I should wear dresses instead. I hate the bitch. She ignored me and emasculated me. Why the hell did I want to go home to that?

A steaming pile of rice with shrimp and vegetables was placed in front of me along with coffee. I wrinkled my nose. I don't particular like coffee but the look on your face dared me to argue.

I ate it all and forced the coffee with plenty of sugar down my throat. You paid the bill and put me into your car. You hardly spoke at all, which was okay by me. The butter soft leather and smooth purr allowed me to relax. It gave me time to look and look I did.

You are taller than me, back then I would have said at least a foot with large hands. Palms wide with long elegant fingers. I could imagine those hands on me and how I wanted them. Your face was serious with sharp cheekbones and a knife edged nose. Your lips were pressed into a thin line that dared the world to fuck with you. Your eyes were dark, like chocolate, but I stopped there. I am not a fucking girl.

You ordered me to give you my address and your car moved next to the curb smoothly. Thinking that it was time to depart, no matter the faint sense of disappointment, I got out of the car and trudged up the walk. The sound of a door slamming made me pause. You stalked up beside me and knocked on the door with purpose.

Rolling my eyes, I waited until she made an appearance. I gasped when I felt your hand cradle my skull, your touch travelled down my hair and against my back. I know that you heard her steps getting closer. You stared forward as your hand dropped to your side.

"Learn your lesson, boy?"

"Sure," I replied with a careless shrug. You growled lowly as the door swung open to reveal my very perturbed mother.

I don't remember everything she spat out. But as I walked into my home, I missed your warmth, your power over me. The door shut with a slam. You were walking away and part of me wanted to fling myself at your feet, to beg you to take me with you.

Instead, I listened to my mother rant and rave. I felt the sting of her hand against my face, fingers tugging viciously at my hair until she gave up and shoved me toward the stairs.

As I slowly made my way up them, the fire on my face was not just the shape of her hand. It was the rage of feeling helpless, out of control. I never fought back. What was the point? She didn't want me and I sure as hell did not want her. But there was nowhere to go.

*~*

I go through my chores while you are away. I miss you when you are at work but I enjoy the quietness of the house. Your house, passed down from family member to family member. Being your mother's only son, it became yours when she passed away.

The wood is cool beneath my bare feet as I move from kitchen to parlor to bedrooms to the office. I breathe in the clean scent of laundry as I draw them down from the line and put them away.

My stomach finally reminds me that the day has passed quickly. I decide on a mug of tinned soup that I can drink standing at the sink. I don't want to clutter the clean kitchen. My cat is curled near the stove, watching me closely.

Your eyes are like that, they see everything. And I am ever thankful that when you looked at me, you saw me unguarded and vulnerable, even if I argued and fought against it.

*~*

Was it destiny? Fate? Karma? Or some other bullshit nattered about on late night television. Who the hell knows? But I ran into you again. In a very compromising position. For me.

The smoke hung heavy in the air, sweet and intoxicating in my lungs. My dealer was currently on his knees, his mouth on me, his fingers flirting to enter me. I didn't want that. Not here, not like that. Part of me, the stupid part of me, stubbornly hung onto that to give to the man that I wanted. Not just a cheap fuck in an alley to the dull rhythm of the club pounding into the brick of the wall.

I pulled my hips away and got a sneer for my troubles. I thought I heard the word 'cocktease' before fingers bit into my hips and held me still.

"No." I tried for firm, but with the sweet floating in my veins it came out like a whimper. The drag of dry blunt fingers was pressing closer and closer.

What happened next, in my memory, was a blur still. The only clarity was hitching my pants around my waist and stumbling to the mouth of the alley.

"Oh hell no," the growl, your growl was so familiar it stopped me in my tracks. "Not this time, boy."

I fought and kicked as I was lifted off of my feet and held close. I did not want it. I did not want your pity. I did not want you to see me this way. I fought so that I could run. I wanted your touch but not like this.

You held me until I gave up. Your arms were about me, your lips against my temple and I just sagged against your strength. I knew you were going to take me home again. But the warmth of you was so intoxicating, that I pressed a hesitant kiss, a touch of skin against skin, against your neck. Your body tensed beneath me and I was dropped to the ground.

Your eyes were serious. I knew you were going to take me home and this time I felt that I would never see you again. So, I leaned into the leather and stared at you as you drove. I wanted to imprint you on my mind. That no matter what the future held, you would be the bulwark for the wraiths of my days forward to stand up against. To wither away under the intensity of you.

The car stopped with a precise switch of keys. I sat up and blinked. The neighborhood was unfamiliar. The houses in a circular cul de sac, with an adjoining garden, the colors washed out and pale in the moonlight. You got out of the car and made your way to the house we were parked in front of. You didn't ask, you didn't explain.

But I followed you willingly.

You put me in the bathroom with a stack of towels and toiletries, clothes that were way too big for me. I shivered. I liked the thought of being in your clothes, for a moment to be marked as yours.

I washed as quickly as my unsteady limbs allowed. My hair hung wet about my shoulders, dampening the cotton shirt that hung down to my thighs, covering the boxers that barely held onto my hips. I followed the sound of a quiet television to find you sitting in a darkened room, solitary in the large leather chair. The couch was obviously waiting for me with its soft blankets and pillows.

Biting my lip, courage intoxicating in my bloodstream, I took a chance.

You never looked away as I moved across the room. You did not move when I straddled your lap. You did not react when I held onto your biceps as I leant forward.

"Please," I whispered.

You blinked and your large hands settled on my hips.

"No."

I would never see you again. I knew that. Pressing into you, feeling your heat against me, I got closer, sharing your very breath.

"Please."

Your lashes fluttered against your skin. One hand left my hip and pushed into my hair. A rumbled growl, I thought was denial only to have my thoughts scattered when you took my mouth.

I have been kissed before. A flirt of lips before traveling on to other more pressing matters. This wasn't a kiss.

It was possession.

My hair was gripped in your hand, pulling back with a sting to my scalp. My throat was exposed and vulnerable. My mouth was bruised and bitten; you left no part of me untouched.

You reared back, the light catching your dark eyes before you bit into my neck. My hands went into your hair, to find purchase, to hold on through the pain. I imagined you taking my blood even as you put your mark on me. My body heated, my groin ached at the thought. I pressed my cock against yours, thin cotton and denim the barriers between us. Your hand tightened in my hair and I thought you gave another rumble, this time of approval.

Then your hands were gone, your eyes dark and unreadable. I wanted to beg, to plead. But as I opened my mouth, you pressed a broad thumb against my lips. Not really understanding, I kept still even as my thighs trembled and my arms shook. You eased my hands out of your hair and I braced myself against being separated from you.

To be cast aside.

But your hands swept away the t-shirt, leaving me in too big underwear and my skin. I blushed and looked away. Old doubts, childhood taunts, and my mother's derision left me with little faith in my body. Sure guys wanted to blow me, leave me panting with my jeans about my thighs. They never wanted to see me.

Hugging my arms about my skinny chest, I didn't want you to see me either. But your touch was firm, placing my arms at my sides with an order of, "No."

Your hands were touching me, gentle strokes up and down my arms, thumbs pressing my collarbone, fingertips brushing my nipples. Breath hitching, I squirmed. Not to get away, but to have more. Wanted more, as much as you would let me have.

The kiss was softer this time, a mingling of breath, scent imprinting, saliva wet and cool. Your hands moved to my hair brushing it back and your eyes bore into mine. Just as my chest was naked, you took away the shield of my hair and saw me.

"Beautiful."

The flush of blood under my skin was fire and I leaned forward. Your fingers bit into my hips once more, either in warning or encouragement, I was not sure. But I laid my head against your shoulder and tried again.

"Please."

Touch. Wet. Heat. Long fingers drenched in lubricant eased my aching cock from its cotton prison. I trembled at the sensations rocketing through my body when the heat of you joined and pressed against me. This was not a fast grope between two desperate, horny kids. Dizziness overwhelmed me, spinning me about within the needs of my body. Your hands were large enough to hold us both.

"Move."

My body responded, rocking to and fro, a slow drag of flesh against surrounding flesh. Youth and foolishness overrode desire and I pressed against you. Your long arm about my hips anchored me.

"Jonathan." The word wrenched out of my soul with a quiet gasp as I spilled across our skin, leaving me depleted, hollow but safe.

Safe when your fingers bruised my hips and your come marked me as your own. It was too much and I drifted away, sticky and wet, with the scent of your skin pressed against my nose.

When I opened my eyes again, you had moved us to spoon in the soft blankets that had waited patiently on the couch. Your fingers are were carding through my long tangled hair, gently prying the knots apart and smoothing them beneath your touch. You must have felt the difference in my body because your hand stilled. I whined lowly and the leisurely touch resumed.

"How old are you?" Your voice was raspy, heavy with sleep. It tickled my mind, you had said that before.

"Old enough," I mumbled trying to find the escape of sleep once more. I had said that as well. Instead the squeeze to my balls made me gasp and squirm. Sleep made me say stupid things. "How old are you?"

The squeeze became tighter, on the edge of being painful. I coughed and then muttered quietly, "Sixteen." I didn't see the problem. Our alcohol laws may have been outdated but our founding fathers were wise enough to put the age of consent at fourteen. So I didn't see age being an issue.

You did. You went very still behind me, before your touch gentled. It made me want to snarl at the soft touches and arms that loosened into a hug instead of the possessive embrace I had felt so secure in. But I was sleepy and I couldn't keep my eyes open. I thought I heard you mutter, "Damn." I was not sure.

Morning dawned through tall windows. I blinked and sat up. I knew I would be alone. I crept through the house, thinking to find my clothes and run away. I didn't know where you had put them and hunger overrode common sense.

You didn't have much. I could tell that you lived on take out and frozen meals. In a way it saddened me, you were larger than life but didn't have the creature comforts of home and hearth. Who was I kidding? My mother may have had those things but they were not for me. For a brief moment, I felt a comraderie at the sorry state of affairs.

I rooted out a stale muffin and downed it with cold water. I could hear the shower running in the upper level of your home. I needed my clothes. That's what I told myself.

That's what I told you as I slid under the spray with you and touched your arms. I could tell by your lowered brow that you were going to send me on my way and none too gently. I didn't want that. I wanted you. I wanted the connection that anchored me to this world. I wanted to feel a sense of belonging that I never had.

Your skin was warm and wet beneath my fingers as I lowered myself to my knees. The tile cool, the water needle pricks against me, my eyes stung. Your hands on my shoulders and a low growl gave me a warning that I did not heed.

The taste of you was an instant addiction. The feel of you settled something within me. Your hands in my hair anchored me as I took more and more of you into me. I felt the touch of our souls.

The sting of my hair and the tightening of your balls heralded the warm salty stream that filled my mouth. I jerked myself clumsily with my head resting against the tight muscles of your thigh. I didn't wait for recrimination. On jelly legs, I stumbled out of the shower. I found my clothes that I ignored earlier hanging from the hook on the back of the door. I pulled them onto my wet skin.

I ran away. You did not stop me.

If you did not tell me then it wasn't true. No matter what you thought, I was going to be with you again.

*~*

I wake up from a light doze and rub my eyes. My sweet companion is stretched out beside me. I never sleep that long, especially if I am not in your arms.

You will be home soon. And then I remember. This is the night that you will stop by the gym before you return. I lick my lips in anticipation of your sweat salt taste. It will give me time to prepare a meal for you. I like doing things for you. You say it is misplaced guilt that is years overdue of being let go.

It is not guilt; I want to give you something. You have given me everything. Hell, you raised me. You are at my side every time I fuck up. And I do.

I just had to get you to see that despite the differences in our ages, I was yours. From the moment you pulled me away from the roadway and disaster, I was owned. I had always been yours.

*~*

Making myself scarce began to equate to me sitting on your doorstep time and time again. I found myself drawn to your home. It was a representation of security and lust, protection and comfort that I was lacking in my life. More often than not you were not there and I would drag my numbed limbs home, empty and hollow.

But the days that you were there, you simply opened your door. You would not say anything when I would curl on your couch. You resisted at first but seemed to understand my need for touch. You would lift me off my feet, you would hold me in your lap, you would press your lips against my skin.

You would not have sex with me. And I tried. I knew that you were the one that I wanted to be with, to give myself to. Only you were adamant.

And your arms were warm.

The second time I stayed the night, I slept in your bed. I had waited until the cold hours of dawn for you. My lip split with dried blood, the screeches of 'I would never amount to anything' ringing in my ears. Your brow furrowed as I pushed myself up with a wince. My mother may have been as small as me, but she had a fierce grip. And she wielded a hair brush with dexterity.

I didn't want comfort. I didn't want pity. I shoved your hands away because they were soft. I spat when you tipped my face up by my chin. Your fingers tightened in reaction and I moaned in approval.

You seemed to come to a decision because the world tipped. You lifted me as if I weighed nothing. The safety, the security, the familiarity of the action made my limbs loosen. I laid my head against your shoulder, breathed in sweat and leather. You took your shower with me, your hands travelled over my bruised body. Any other time, I would have pushed for more. I was just tired. Tired of everything. Your hand cupped my cheek; your lips were water and comfort. I stumbled and you held me under the spray.

You left me to my own devices within the confines of your bedroom. I think you may have said something about food but I paid no never mind. Your neat spartan room was new. In my times in your home, it had been the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. A black stain on hardwood floors drew my eye. It was so out of place, my lips twitched, a discarded shirt that must have slipped from the end of the bed.

It was soft and worn. It smelled of you. It was like being in your arms again and the weight of the world crashed down. Dropping the towel and curling into the soft fabric, it fell down to my thighs, reminding me of just how big you were. You could stand up to my mother. She wouldn't pull your hair or shove you around. Wanting more, I slid beneath your smooth sheets and could smell you even more. I cuddled into your pillow and fell into oblivion.

The coming to awareness was slow, hazy, and dreamlike. I knew you were near at first. Then I felt you, your hand roaming over my skin. I blinked and looked up at you. You had settled the blankets about my hips; your shirt had parted and revealing more than I was ready to deal with. You had seen it in the shower, what more was there to say?

The press against the bruised skin made me hiss. Your hand drew back as if burned. I stared at you and brought your hand to the next mark, were the bristles had broken the skin. My eyes stung as you traced over it, nails scratching. My hips bucked involuntarily.

The darkness in your eyes seemed to hold a secret knowledge that I did not. You gave me what I needed even if I did not understand. You removed the stain of her hateful abuse, claiming the marks to my body as your own. When I was covered and trembling, you laid back and drew me over you. Your shirt was pooled in the crooks of my elbows, your fingers biting into my hips.

Unsure, I reached out and took the lube from your bedside table, your hands steadying me. My hands were too small but your stare did not waver. Coating both of my palms, I held you in one hand and myself in the other. I began to ride against your hips, the rhythm moving up and down both of our dicks. Moaning, I pushed them together, needing more friction. I had to hold us, both of my hands stretched to accommodate.

When your hand left my hip, it squeezed the curve of my ass. I kept my eyes on yours as your fingers moved closer and closer. Would this be the night? I was ready and afraid. But the gentle pressure had me gasping, screwing my eyes shut, my heat slicking your skin. You were quiet with sharp snap of hips, your lips parted as you came.

You held me with a brush of lips to my forehead. Then you were cleaning away come businesslike and precise. I curled into the pillow watching you.

"Are you tired," you asked, voice heavy.

I shook my head. My body was sated but my mind busy. Something had changed and I wanted to be sure the foundation was sound, not the beguiling sheet of ice that could crack and plunge me into the depths.

You pulled me up and settled me into the crook of your arm. You fed me day old bread and cheese, washing it down with sweet cold juice. I rested against your chest and turned my head away when I wanted no more. Your hand bracketed my throat, warm but not threatening.

I looked up, unsure. You studied me in the soft lamplight glow before lowering your lips to mine. The kisses were deep and owning, making me heavy and pliant. When you drew away, I let my eyes shut. I was safe and tired. I knew you wouldn't push me away.

*~*

I line up the seasoned chicken and cover it before sliding it into the warm oven. I check the rice and add spices, it is bubbling and I replace the lid once more.

I take out fresh vegetables. Running the leafy greens under the water, I dry them gently. Checking the time, I quickly mix oil and vinegar before scurrying about our home.

I like for you to come home to the comfort of warmth and scent. The candles glow and caress my face.

*~*

Things progressed pretty quickly after sleeping in your bed. My mother did not care that I stopped coming home. You wanted to press the issue but I distracted you.

Walking home from the park, my feet automatically led to you. I stopped. Fear ate at my gut. Fear can make you stupid.

So instead of you, I wandered through the streets and into the night. The darkening night led to the hypnotic allure of the clubs. I covered the fear with anger. I did not need you, even as I craved to belong to you.

You could hurt me; I decided to strike out instead. I moved from club to club, drinking, smoking, sucking cocks and blowing others in return. I fell asleep against the cold brick the smell of waste and vomit burning my nose.

I drank more and more, the world sliding away. It was measured by the fists pounding into my skin and the mouths wrapped around my dick. I wasn't sure how long I wandered until the cold rain permeated my skin.

I was cold. I was hungry. I was dirty. I was empty. And I didn't like it. With her, I would have crawled to the door and begged. Her hands adding to the abuse and bruises decorating my flesh.

Instead, my feet remembered their destination. I stood at your door and shifted my weight. What was I doing? I had fucked this up and would face your wrath. It frightened me in ways my mother’s anger never had.

The door flung open quickly causing me to step back involuntarily. You had been working, a late shift by the looks of it, your shirt untucked and the buttons loosened at your throat.

It was a moment that stood still and my guts slithered to my feet. You reached out and wrapped your fist about my hair and pulled. I closed my eyes. I knew that feeling. Fists, belts, brushes, and slaps were going to follow. I knew it. I waited for the first blow.

I didn't expect you to devour my dirty mouth. I didn't expect you pushing your face into my neck as you lifted me off my feet. I didn't expect the snarl of 'you little shit' before your teeth sunk into my skin. I gasped and arched in your arms, wanting to press into the pain even as I wanted it to stop.

I never wanted you to let go. That was it. I wanted you to let go. I wanted to be too much for you, for you to give up on me, just as so many had before you.

You only held on tighter, bathing me, dressing me, feeding me, your hand never leaving me.

It opened up a part of me that we finally discussed the need for expectations, rules, boundaries, the acceptance of pain as punishment, as consequence, not just for breathing. I wanted the pain in ways that I shied away from my mother.

You held me across your lap, naked and writhing, one hand holding my wrists into the small of my back, the other sparking red behind my eyes and bruising my ass. Then you jerked me up, a painful hiss as my ass touched your lap, your fist on my cock, your mouth eating me alive, bruising my lips, biting my tongue, taking away the very breath of life.

When you let go, it was a gift to suck in a lungful of air. My come seeping between us. You held me that night, your arm clamped about my hips, daring me to run.

Bright light of day embarrassed me, angered me, the desire to lash out feral and unmanageable. You simply held me through the tumult, going as far as binding my wrists. The turmoil inside of me settled as I pressed my forehead into your chest.

Your hand traveled down my hair, pressing against my trembling back. It made the circuit upward and settled beneath my sweat damp hair against my nape. The pressure curled through me like liquid heat and I moaned.

"That's it, boy," You murmured against my skin, "That's it, I know what you need. You will too."

Things got better. You stood before my mother and claimed me. Not that she wanted me anyway, but to see you standing there amidst the elegant coldness of her home, telling her what was what still makes me weak in the knees. I packed what little I had and never looked back. She tried to communicate on and off again. She has always been good with guilt and the quiet threat of angry hurt.

You showed me a hurt that surpassed what she had ever doled out. You could make me choke back a scream as I came helplessly and then you held me, checking me, making sure I was safe.

Of course I screwed it up. That was my lot in life, my very nature on dealing with human interaction. After a call from her laden heavily with guilt and innuendo, I needed to escape. I found some guys that I ran with before I met you. They had all matter of things to make me forget, sweet smoke, colorful candy pills, and alcohol. The holy trinity, I snorted with deadened mirth.

I don't know how you found me. You would always find me in the end no matter how I tried to hide. You found me in a stupor, slowly sucking a companion, even as I was sucked in return.

Your face was pale as I finally focused on your face. You simply turned and walked away from the backroom of the club. I stumbled into my clothes, my limbs not cooperating. You didn't wait for me. You didn't open your door to me. I sat in the cold air, feeling the dew dampening my stinking clothes, rank with sweat, come, and drugs.

The door unlocked but did not open. I pushed it open slowly, instinct keeping me on my hands and knees. I shivered. The belt was wrapped around your meaty fist.

Time passed slowly and in a blur of pain and fire. When the whistle of the belt quieted, your hand in my hair pulled me forward. Not angry snatches, but controlled rage that propelled me forward on screaming legs so that my hair would not be pulled out by its roots. You pushed me into the tub and I stumbled, my hands smacking the tile to keep me upright. I turned to you. Your face was implacable as you slowly fished out your cock. The humiliation burned even as your urine stung my flesh. You put yourself away and turned your back on me. You did not look back as you walked out of the bathroom.

Not knowing what to do, I lowered myself into the tub and onto my knees. The stench of old piss in my nose but I kept myself very still. I did not have the right to move. I had failed you. I had failed myself. I knew I was not welcome yet. My mind drifted away, my thoughts on you and begging your forgiveness.

My body gave a mighty jerk when you turned on the water full blast and cold. You dragged the cotton over my skin harshly and pulled me out of the tub with your fist about my bicep. You pushed me into the wall, your fist closed about my throat.

"I'm not going to ask why, you stupid fuck." You spat in my face. You pushed closer; I could smell your scent and whined, "Never again."

Then your hands were gone, unsupported I fell to my knees, pressing my forehead to your bare feet. Hesitantly, I lapped at your toes, along the elegant instep, to the knobs of bone at your ankles. You did not stop me. When I settled, you lifted me up not onto my feet but into your arms.

"Never again," Your breath is harsh against my ear, but your hands traveled over my skin restlessly, pressing, twisting, marking.

I did not sleep in your bed. I slept on the floor curled in a discarded shirt. When I awoke, you were sitting at the edge of your bed with a coffee cup in your hand.

"I don't share."

You did not saying anything else. You were seated, naked and cocksure, your thighs spread wide. You did not have to say anything else. I knew what to do. With my hands at my back, my knees tucked beneath me, I began to apologize.

I nuzzled along the soft, silk of your inner thigh, just moving my lips and nose against your skin. Your thighs accommodated me as I inhaled your scent. The crisp, wiry curls brushed my cheek as I breathed warm air across the length of you before dipping down. I opened my mouth cautiously, your balls overfilling me. With a slow lick upward, I pressed against the heavy vein, pausing only to focus on the flesh beneath the wide, wet head of your cock. I continued to seek and lick, knowing that I had not earned the honor.

Your forgiveness was a hand in my hair, fingers smoothing over my ears, lifting my chin so that I could see your fathomless dark eyes. With a moan, I took you in, giving you all. Begging with my mouth and my eyes, I drank the bitter salt of absolution. Your hand tightened once more.

I understood.

"I don't share."

*~*

 _I don't share_. Just remembering your tone heavy with threat and certainty, still makes me shudder.

The table is set; your toiletries are waiting as you arrive. I shiver again. I want you. I want you to take me, to fuck me, to burn me from the inside out. Checking the time, I curl into your favorite chair wearing your discarded shirt that smells of you. Wearing the thick socks you nag me about. You take care of me. You always have. It may have taken a long time. But I understand that now.

You were the one I gave my body to, my soul to, and yeah, my heart would come later.

*~*

You made me wait until I was seventeen. Hand jobs, blow jobs were sex, yes, but you did not penetrate me until my birthday. I snorted in derision at the cliché and you ignored me. I ignored that it made me feel warm inside.

To say the sex was perfect would be lying. First times hurt, it’s awkward. Where do you put your limbs, do you touch, do you hold back, do you tense up, do you cry out in the agonizing pain?

You fucked me on my seventeenth birthday. The significance of the day was noted by a nice meal, simply wrapped gift, a nod to buy some things online that I had been salivating over.

Then began the process of penetration, I was not completely clueless but you oversaw the process anyway, the cleaning and preparing of my body.

You laid me against cool, soft sheets and talked to me, where your hands were, what you were touching and why. I moved restlessly wanting to get it over with, to have you in me, to have you own me completely.

Still, fingers are no match for a large cock against a virgin hole. You went slowly, even as my body shook and I bit at my arm. Each minute relaxation you pressed ahead. When there was no space in between us, you kissed away my tears that traveled down my cheek and pooled against my neck.

You waited against your own need to rut. You held me, touched me, and soothed your hand against my tense belly, kissing my neck and shoulder, whispering to me. My cock stiffened in your hand as my body relaxed. Pliant and loose, you took me.

With a snap of brutal hips, I felt your balls against my own. You lifted me up onto my knees, pressing my hips downward to take you, over and over again. It was all that I could do to stay balanced on my forearms, my cock swinging heavy and hard between my thighs.

That's when you touched me. Pulling me back to sink onto your flesh, your fist wet with lube stroking me to completion. When I gasped out, "Jonathan," you froze before jerking unsteadily. Your seed was within my body and your touch was on my skin.

I wanted to have you again as soon as I woke up from my sated slumber but you ignored me. Instead you checked my hole and pulled me into your arms. I squirmed restlessly. You squeezed my balls in warning and said, "Enough for now, boy."

*~*

You open the door and drop your things on the waiting table by the door. You peer in at me with a knowing smirk.

I beg with my eyes and you give a nod. I follow you into the bathroom, helping you undress. Your hands travel over the silk of your shirt on my body and your expression softens before leaning down to claim my mouth. I push against you, pleading without words.

You stand before me naked and arrogant and waiting. I slid down to my knees before you and open my mouth. You drag the wide head against my bottom lip before I take you in. You pull out and smear the clear leaking fluid against my cheeks. I look up at you adoration. Your hand goes to my hair, taking control and fucking my mouth at your leisure. It is strong, sweat, musk, and salt and I hum happily around you. You come with your cock lodged in my throat. A gentle sweep of fingers in my hair makes me blush as I clean you, not wanting to miss a drop of your taste.

Before getting into the shower, you help me to my feet. You wipe away the traces of come from my face before kissing me swiftly. You turn your back to wash away the grime of the day.

You never have been one for many words. But when you do speak, even in anger, and with the tender words of affection, I hear every word.

*~*

What I have said was true, you raised me. It took almost a year for you to come to grips with the fact that you were ten years older than I.

It was never a problem for me. You were father, brother, lover, and friend rolled in one big ass scary package. You provided structure, safety, and interest that I had never really had.

My mother was a cold cruel bitch. Sometimes I wonder if she blamed me for the man that sired me, if she blamed me for his walking away. She blamed me because he was weak. That's why in her mind, I never would be a man.

To say that I have 'issues' with trust is an understatement. You understood that. Every time I lashed out, I wanted you to prove that I was right. That you would be another person that would fail to live up to my very low standards and would kick me out on my ass.

You told me you knew what I needed, that you understood. And as you explained it, the deepest, darkest part of my soul was exposed. How I craved it and how I feared it. I had been hurt so many times, an absent father, an abusive mother, condescending teachers, men that came in and out of my life through the revolving door of my mother's home. It was a matter of trust that you were asking for.

Could I do it? You were helping mold me into the man that I wanted to become; you fed my mind as well as my body. You held my heart in your hands and protected it, even with pain consequences of my actions, you shielded it. You were offering the structure and the chance to just be, to give up the fear, the recrimination, the hurt, and just be.

It wasn't easy, the training, the letting go. I cried, I fought, I begged. I pleaded all the while you were there teaching me. And when I went to my knees at your feet without thinking, when I opened my mouth to the food that you offered, when I performed the tasks that you left without question, I understood.

I grew. My mind was opened to new worlds of knowledge; art, music, books, history, as much as my thirsty soul could swallow whole. I did not need to worry about the roof over my head, the food in my belly, the clothes on my back. You explained that it was your responsibility. I just had to submit. You could take away things that were not needed, like my books, my paintbrushes. I did not need them to survive and if I resisted, then I did not need them. Once I settled down and understood the lesson you were teaching, my things were returned, usually while I was blissfully kneeling at your feet.

The day you presented me with my collar, I felt bound to you in ways that a ceremony or piece of paper never could. I was yours, your collar about my throat signified that I was yours, owned completely.

You whispered in my ear, _Mine._

My very soul quaked in response.

_Master._

*~*

I do not wear my collar always, but I do wear a ring about my finger that says, 'owned' within the band. It has become a ritual between us. You’re coming down from your shower. I kneel by your chair ready to serve you.

The weight of the collar settles around my neck and you draw me to my feet. Your hand slides down my hair and across my back. I serve you and then wait. Most nights, I sit at the table with you, enjoying the meal and listening to the events of your day and telling you mine. But tonight, you draw me onto your lap and feed me by your hand.

We spend the evening in the living room, you pushing aside the shirt that covers my body. In your lap, television low and flickering, you trace over the bruises and abrasions. Each touch makes me moan and squirm until you raise a brow. Getting the message, I bite my lip. It was time to be quiet, to be still, to submit to your touches. To disobey the silent warning would mean punishment. I was past that, I knew that I was your boy and could follow your command.

As you pull me against your chest, my eyes feel heavy. You move from the television to reading. I shiver when you begin to read aloud.

Every move you make reminds me that you care for me, that I belong to you. I shudder to think if you had not been there to pull me out of the busy street.

Who would I have been? Would I have even survived?

Your words come to a stop. Your lips brush my temple. The room goes dark and you lift me into yours arms.

"To bed, my own."

I lay in your arms, safe, content, and loved. I knew what the next day would bring, and the next. I let my eyes close as my head rests over your heart. I never say it out loud. I can't but my heart says it for me.

_I love you._


End file.
